An Advent of Thanksgiving

Not long ago, Kev and I had the opportunity to spend a Sunday afternoon at the home of Kev’s aunt and uncle when several of their grown children and their families were gathered together for a post-Thanksgiving meal. There I observed a scene that was beautiful and yet cut through me quite unexpectedly. Like slipping and falling on a patch of ice disguised as pavement, it caught me off guard and knocked the wind out of me: A mother and her lovely daughters sitting around the table sharing family stories and memories with one another, finishing each other’s sentences. They might not have been aware of it—I certainly wouldn’t have been if I hadn’t been so keenly aware of its absence in my own life—but they were sharing much more than conversation and laughter; they were sharing a connection that can only exist between a mother and her daughters.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about this mother-daughter connection. It’s hard to describe my relationship with my mom because words like “friend” or “confidante” don’t do it justice. All my life, my mom was the first one I thought to call whenever something exciting or sad or confusing happened. She knew all my secrets and all my hopes, and she knew all my foibles and flaws—and loved me anyway. I miss sharing things with her—chatting for more than an hour on the phone until she’d inevitably say, “I have to let you go, Keri. I have to go to the bathroom!”—and sometimes I feel very hollow inside. But these days, I mostly feel thankful.

This feeling of thankfulness is surprising to me because throughout much of the grieving process, thankfulness has been an afterthought instead of a real, honest emotion. Of course I’m thankful my mom is in heaven and will never know pain or loss again. And I’m thankful for the assurance I’ll see her again. But thankfulness for these things hasn’t necessarily changed the fact that what I really want is another 30 years with my mom.

The thankfulness I’ve felt lately, though, is different. It’s been quietly and steadily replacing the vague, unsettled feeling that’s lingered all these months with a soothing sort of peace. Grief for what I’ve lost now mingles with thankfulness for what I had. For 36 years I had a mother who loved me, supported me, corrected me, and modeled for me what it means to be a woman of God. That is a huge blessing! Mourning that fact that my mom will not live to be over 90 like her own mother seems to cheapen the 66 years God gave my mom on this earth, 36 of which I got to spend with her. Why have I not realized this before?

Oh how the grace of God is a salve for the pieces of me that were broken and are now healing! I love how he reveals things in his own time, patiently and repeatedly for those of us who are slow to catch on. Jesus’ promise that those who mourn will be comforted rings true in so many ways that continue to leave me amazed and humbled.

I don’t know if I’ll ever stop longing for the concreteness of the relationship I had with my mom. I haven’t heard her voice since Good Friday, and I miss it every single day. But the relationship I had with my mom did not die when my mom did; it will always be a part of who I am and will continue to influence and shape my relationships with other people. Thank you, Lord. Thank you.